


3 Times Rick’s Enemies Tried to Kidnap Morty + 1 Time They Succeeded

by strawberry_morty



Series: Rick and Morty Works [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: BAMF Morty, BAMF Rick, Dark Morty, Dark Rick, Gen, M/M, POV Outsider, Protective Rick, The Citadel of Ricks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-05-28 13:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15049985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_morty/pseuds/strawberry_morty
Summary: People try to kidnap Morty. A lot. Most of the time, it doesn’t work. (And just once, it does.)





	1. 1. The Galactic Federation (A for Effort)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Rick and Morty fic! I'm hoping to make this a 5x1 fic, but for now I only have the draft for 3x1, so for now that's how many chapters it's looking to be. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

  1. The Galactic Federation (A for Effort)



“ _Agent A22 report Agent A22. Is the target in sights?_ ”

“This is Agent A22. I have my eye on the target. He’s unaccompanied and unarmed.”

“ _Keep your eye on him. Alpha Squad, status?”_

“ _In position and approaching_.”

“ _Great. Remember everyone, once we proceed with the plan, everything will go to shit. We don’t know what to expect. Do your jobs and get back to the ship ASAP_.”

“Tranqs loaded. I have a clear shot.”

There were a lot of impossible obstacles in the task of arresting a universal terrorist. The easiest step was finding him – and when finding the man with a portal gun to teleport him anywhere in the multiverse was the easiest part, it was quite clear why most people gave up before even considering what the Galactic Federation was about to do.

They knew where Rick lived – would have surveillance on the house 24/7 if they could, but any cameras set up in Rick’s absence were destroyed by the end of the day without fail. But it didn’t matter anyway. Trying to ambush Rick Sanchez in his own territory would be suicide. Rick would be familiar with the environment, have full supply to his resources, and his security system could shoot down entire armies before they even breached Earth’s atmosphere.

It was also pointless to try capture him while he roamed the universe. He was untraceable, and even if they managed to find him, he had his portal gun to jump to another dimension within five seconds.

The only way to corner Rick Sanchez would be to force the man to approach _them_.

It was risky. Beyond that – it was _insane_. Every organization – from crime syndicates to government powers – knew to stay the fuck away from Rick Sanchez. Even criminals were cautious to do business with him. Pissing of the scientist was a death sentence that resulted in catastrophic property damage and numerous casualties.

But they had a plan – a good one.

In a battle of wits, even the Galactic Federation’s entire council of scientists, tacticians, and politicians wouldn’t be able to gain the upper hand on Rick Sanchez. He was undoubtedly, the smartest man in the universe – and he had an advantage that let him win every single time: He could do whatever the hell he wanted. He didn’t have to worry about public reputation, or federal laws, or even _funding_.

He could ruthlessly take them down – with violence or with words, while the Federation had to scrutinize every strategic decision they made and every word they spoke _. Who else will be affected? How would the public react to this? How could we justify the casualties?_

Rick’s greatest advantage was this: He didn’t give a shit. He hated everything.

 _Well,_ Agent A22 thinks with a grin. He lightly tests the trigger of his rifle. Through the scope, he can see the bullet is aimed towards a human boy wearing a bright yellow shirt.

_Perhaps not everything._

In strategy, or pure military power, Rick Sanchez had them beat – but they wouldn’t need to fight.

All they needed was a hostage.

Morty Smith. Rick’s biological grandson.

Since Rick had chosen his companion, he was rarely seen without his grandson by his side. Sightings of the wanted criminal were called in, only to be accompanied by descriptions of a younger partner that followed at Rick’s heels. At first, people had mistaken the boy to be a victim – an innocent bystander held prisoner by the cruel Rick Sanchez. But it soon became evident that Morty Smith was far from helpless.

Four years ago, Rick had raided the National Gromflamite Bank. By a stroke of luck, they’d caught him in the underground vaults before he could escape and managed to detain him. They’d been so fucking close.

Morty Smith, in Rick’s dingy space ship, had crashed straight through the building and shot down twenty soldiers before the smoke had even cleared. He’d blasted open the chains holding down Rick and had half-dragged his grandfather back to their ship, before hightailing it out of there. As a final parting gift, the kid had drop three bombs down to their formation on the streets, taking out any vehicles they could have used to pursue them – and completely destroying the skyscraper’s foundation. The entire building had collapsed.

Everyone in the tower and the surrounding area had been killed – it had been a death count in the millions.

Since then, the news doesn’t report on Rick Sanchez anymore. It’s Rick and Morty. The duo of terror.

He was by no means an easy target – but seeing him now, easily dwarfed by his taller peers, with no weapons or Rick Sanchez around, and a dopey, clueless expression on his face, it looked like this would be easier than expected. And now that Morty was 18 – a legal adult on his planet – the Federation could take him into custody without causing a controversy.

“Idiots,” He chuckles under his breath as he adjusts the rifle’s stance against the roof’s boundary. They were two of the most wanted criminals in the universe, and the kid walked around wherever? Rick was arrogant to think no one would try take a stab while he was away.

He calms his breathing and focuses once more onto the target. “Ready to shoot. Is everyone else in position?”

He would take out Morty with a heavy tranquilizer. A team of disguised agents would sneak the unconscious boy away without causing a scene, to the cloaked ship hiding ten meters away, separate from the crowds of students walking around the front of the school. It was a simple plan, but there was a lot that could go wrong if Rick somehow has defenses unreadable to the scans they took.

He frowns. “Agent A22 reporting in. Can I take the shot?”

“Sure – Sure you can. Just know if you do, I’ll bend you in half and make you shit down your own throat.”

He freezes. He hears the sound of a gun cock from behind him, and it presses harshly against the back of his head.

“Hands up before I blow your brains out.” Rick Sanchez orders him.

He takes his hands off the rifle and raises them submissively. Before he can even speak, Rick kicks his feet out from under him and pins him to the ground by the throat. The scientist looms over him and presses an Earthen pistol to his temple as he struggles to breathe.

Rick gives him a terrifying grin. “Just kidding.”

He chucks the pistol behind him and pulls out a much more threatening gun – Rick squeezes the trigger and the spiraling coil lights up with blue electric currents. “That gun doesn’t do jack shit – I-I just use the clicky sound for dramatic effect. I won’t blow your brains out, I’ll melt it like fucking ice cream.”

Desperately he reaches for his comm and chokes out, “He’s here! Sanchez-“

“Don’t bother. I took ‘em out a while ago.”

The grasp on his throat releases and he gasps heavily. Rick stands up and studies his form with boredom, pacing around him in true villain fashion.

“So, _Agent_ , w-what’re y-y-you and your little posse doing here?”

Agent A22 gulps. He’s heard that voice before – in the interrogation rooms, when the interrogator asks a question that they fully know the answer to; when they’re confident in the criminal’s sentence and asking for an explanation is just a formality.

He’s a dead man walking.

“Seeing the sights? Oh! Have you—you tried the Domino’s a couple blocks from here? Lemme tell you, their stuffed crust is fucking amazing.”

His eyes dart over to the right. The simple handgun Rick threw away lies there forgotten.

The scientist is turned away from him, rambling on and seemingly unconcerned. “Always check for the garlic dip before you leave – seriously, those cheap-ass fuckers w-w-will pretend they _forgot_ —”

He scrambles for the pistol and hastily stands up, aiming dead center at Rick’s forehead.

Rick smirks. “Come on, y-y-you really think that’s gonna do anything?”

He turns, aiming over the edge of the roof at Morty.

Before he can even make a threat, Rick dashes forward – far faster than a human should be able to – and grabs his forearm tight enough that he can feel the bone begin to crack. He cries out in pain and drops the gun. _Cybernetic modifications. Shit._

“Oh, now you’ve _really_ pissed me off,” growls Rick.

~

“Rick? W-what are you doing here — _Is that blood_?!”

“Hey Morty! Just thought I’d check up on my favourite buddy!”

“Yeah – Y-yeah… Aw geez, Rick – you’re covered in it. What did you do?”

“W-w-what, Morty – you’re, you’re acting like I killed someone or something.”

“W-well, did you?”

“Yup.”

“ _Rick_!”


	2. 2. Xytarians (At Least You Tried)

“So _Morty_ , how’ve you been liking the place?”

“Yes! Uh – uh, I-I-I mean, your planet is really cool, Trina.”

She flutters her eyes, sliding closer to him in the café booth and bending slightly. Her shirt slips down a little and she sees the kid’s eyes lower to ogle at her chest.

“You know, we’ve been here a while and this place is starting to get old. Since you’re waiting for your grandpa, how about I give you a tour of the city?”

She’s tempted to smack him when his eyes skittishly dart away, voice hesitant as he protests, “Well, he told me to stay here, y-you know.”

She strokes his forearm with a teasing finger, and he gasps as she kisses his jaw lightly just below the ear. “Just you and me,” She whispers breathily, to hide the sound as her teeth grit together. This was taking fucking forever.

“That sounds great,” He squeaks out, face red. Trina has to hide her smirk in his neck.

_Finally._

To be fair, he didn’t have a chance against her. On Xytar, her brother may be the king, but she ruled under the shroud of secrecy. While he was the figurehead of their gang’s operations – the weapons, the drugs and the territory, she was his shadowed right-hand, carrying out the toughest operations with lethal efficiency.

Operations such as capturing the companion of Rick Sanchez. A trusted position, as much as it felt like babysitting.

“Follow me,” She whispers, before grabbing his hand and pulling him out of their seat. Winking at him, she drags him out of the café and sets off with the kid practically drooling behind her.

Everything is going perfectly.

Some in the family weren’t eager to get on the bad side of the scientist, but they knew what they were doing – and they _needed_ Rick Sanchez. There’s a new group that’s come to Xytar, hiring Gazorpians as muscle. Not master infiltrators, but through sheer number they pose a serious threat, and they’re losing ground fast. They need new weapons, and Rick Sanchez designs the best. The only problem being that Rick lacks any semblance of motivation – his dealings are sporadic and sparse at best.

Hence, a hostage as both the motivator and the payment. The heist is simple enough – after all, Rick had as many weaknesses as he did strengths. If he had his wits, Trina wouldn’t even consider this plan, but Rick was easily swayed by his vices.

By now, Rick Sanchez is knee-deep in a pile of drugs and alcohol, kindly provided by her brother as they ‘talk business’. The scientist will be completely inebriated until morning, and even then, they really only need two hours to pack up their little hostage and get back to the gang’s base of operations.

 “Hey Morty!”

She freezes, her grip on Morty’s hand tightening.

“Oh, um – hey Rick. This i-i-is Trina.”

_He shouldn’t be here. What the hell are those guys doing?_

She turns slowly, calming her racing heart, and plasters on the honey smile that makes men fall to their knees.

Rick Sanchez is just as they describe him – confident and relaxed, but her trained eye can see the dangers concealed.

_Stance ready for combat. Fighting style relies on speed and long limbs. Both hands in pockets – armed._

They’ve been made.

Trina sees him throw a calculated glance her way ever so subtly and knows she’s being assessed in the same way. His gaze lingers on their joined hands, eyes darkening and lips twitching down just barely, and the ugly, possessive glint in his eyes reminds her of exactly who she’s dealing with – reminds her of why everyone is so terrified of a simple human and why people whisper his name with fearful reverence.

She’s quite certain that if she manages to regroup with the others, she’ll find piles of viscera and bones.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” She says, reaching to shake his hand. They both know she’s just playing along – Sanchez wants her for something. Otherwise she’d already be dead.

“Well aren’t you a charmer,” Sanchez murmurs. His voice is light, but his eyes are dark like pools of ink. Sanchez takes her hand and gives it a perfectly acceptable shake. It’s friendly, and it sends off every warning signal in her body.

Morty doesn’t seem to notice the heavy tension in the air, just stares at Sanchez with guileless puppy eyes as if searching for his… approval? And _oh_ , of course. She’d underestimated him.

Lightly clutched in his hand, his cellphone is open to messaging. He’d texted Sanchez twenty minutes ago – Almost immediately after she approached him, and Trina hadn’t even noticed.

She wants to punch him, but she can’t help but feel impressed as she realises he had maneuvered and delayed with such a pathetic façade that she hadn’t even bothered to see through it. Moving them to a crowded seating area to give her a window view. Calling over the server for a refill every two minutes, because his throat gets hoarse when he talks to her.

_“Hey, want to go to the park? It’s just down the street.”_

_“Uh, w-w-well, let me buy you a drink! Coffee. Not alcohol. I-I-I mean obviously, we’re in a café…”_

She’d mistaken it for awkwardness, but he had been stalling, and she almost laughs at the fact that this dorky kid is the only guy who’s ever resisted her charms. He’d been interested, definitely, but his loyalty was unwavering.

“Morty, come here,” Sanchez orders, and Morty drops her hand and goes over immediately. Without her shield, she feels exposed under Sanchez’s gaze like an insect pinned down to be dissected. She’s almost tempted to grab Morty’s arm, to trap him in front of her and hold her dagger against his throat – a move so familiar to her it’s practically instinct – but she knows not to push her luck.

When he reaches Sanchez’s side, Morty opens his mouth as if to say something but Sanchez wordlessly opens a portal right under his feet, swallowing him up and leaving only the two of them to remain.

She would sprint back to her bike, if she wasn’t confident that Sanchez could gun her down from a hundred feet away. She can see his left eye dilate and move in a way that’s barely detectable – _unless_ you know what to look for in a cybernetic eye. Fighting isn’t an option either. She’s one of the most skilled in the gang, but against a Rick Sanchez protecting Morty Smith? This heist was never meant to involve direct confrontation, not until they were at base with a thousand of their strongest and every gun loaded.

She doesn’t try to dodge when Sanchez pulls a gun out of his lab coat and shoots her in the thigh. She collapses to the ground but still has enough adrenaline in her veins to smirk at him.

“You’re going to kill me,” Trina tells him as she clutches the wound. “If I let you have your way, you’re going to torture me, make me beg for mercy, and then pack me up screaming and bloody in a box to send back to the rest of the universe as a message. You plan on crippling me for life – likely a scarred face, as a reminder of how you bested me. From one prideful individual to another, I think you can understand when I say I’d rather you kill me.”

Sanchez raises his eyebrows at her. He’s unimpressed, but that’s okay – it’s what she expected. “Good thing I don’t really care what you want.”

She winks at him. “Then I’ll make you kill me.”

“Not happening. I thought you were my messenger.” He says, and the game begins – because while Sanchez may find pleasure in his inventions and little gadgets, she was a puppeteer, and no matter how far she was backed into a corner, she’d always get what she wanted. If she can’t get free, she’ll die with a smile on her face.

“Come now, why don’t we try a compromise?” She breaths, tilting her head back and exposing the smooth line of a throat. “Patch me up and I’ll show you a good time.”

Sanchez scoffs. “Seriously? You’d bite my dick off.”

“I know how to keep my word, _and_ when I’m beat. Come on, no tricks here.” She promises, voice lowering to a purr.

“What makes you think I’d be interested?” Sanchez asks, with a clear tone of _I’m not interested at all._

“You’re lonely.” She says. “I can see it on your face.”

His face twists into a faint smirk. He opens his mouth ready to bring her down, to ridicule her incorrect observation, but she already knows it hadn’t fit perfectly, and has already used his brief victory to burrow deeper.

“There’s someone else – and they don’t love you back. Not lonely, unrequited.” She tilts her head at him. The smirk has vanished, but he hasn’t snapped – “No then. Ah,” She realises. “They reciprocate – it’s you. _You_ don’t want to let them close. You think you’re corrupting them. I’m kind of disappointed, self-loathing is such a boring motivator.”

His face is expressionless like stone, but his type comes a dime a dozen – the ones who close up whenever someone pokes to close – and she knows it means she’s hit the target dead on. “You’re protective of them. They’re smaller – have a cute hero worship thing for you. They soften you up, so you try act twice as tough.”

The kid.

“Wow,” She observes, and gives him a smile. “That’s disgusting.”

“Think I care?”

“You do,” She promises. “Because he’s the only good thing you have. You would watch the universe burn for him. And that’s why you hate yourself for invading his life, sucking up all his time and company like a leech. You console yourself by thinking he needs it, that he’s just like you and just needs one more adventure to bring it out, but he’s nothing but a dumb kid with a learning disability, and he’ll die an insignificant and redundant death by his own idiotic decision to waste time on you.”

She knows the punch is coming before she sees it, but she has to admit Sanchez does hit hard.

“Fuck you,” Sanchez sneers. His hand clenches into a fist at his side, as if he’s considering throwing another. “You think I give a shit what you say? You’re just trying to make me tick, you crazy bitch.”

“Without you, he’s a less than mediocre nobody with no talents or friends. He misdirects all his affection towards his drunk of a grandfather because he’s the only one who bothers to pay attention to him, but once he realises crushing mediocrity is better than a life with you, he’ll leave just like your _dead wif_ e and everyone else.”

“Shut your mouth.” He’s shaking. It’s adorable.

“I hope he grows up to be just like his grandfather,” She smiles venomously. “Clingy, alone, and _pathetic_.”

And Sanchez snaps, grabbing at her limbs, ripping her apart piece by piece with bony hands trembling from rage, and her screams are indistinguishable from her laughter. She may have lost the whole fucking war, but she was petty enough to be satisfied with this final battle. After all, this had always been the way she wanted to go – playing her favourite game, and winning.

When the blood bubbles up her throat, it tastes like victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Trina's pretty cray cray in the head but I'm real happy with how she turned out as an OC. I tried to go for a darker tone with this one so I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Blood Moon (Try, Try Again)

Life on the Citadel – it’s not earth, but… It works, somehow.

On a good day, Morty might even be a little thankful that Rick decided to blow up the moon in a drunken stupor – which… did not go well back home.

His family died, hell, _everyone_ died, and that sucked, but he and Rick have done far worse to other planets. He kind of feels like a psychopath for accepting it so casually, but in a way, it almost felt _offensive_ that he would mourn the loss of humanity while brushing off that one time he caused the mass extinction of the Floopnauts by shaking someone’s hand.

He’d even managed to worry Rick with his apathy, and barely managed to contain the maniacal bursts of giggles whenever Rick tiptoed around him for the few days after. His Rick was on the sweeter side, but still. Rick, _tiptoeing_. As if Morty was a ticking time bomb, he was waiting for Morty to break, to beg Rick to bring their family back or take them to T-35 – to a home that no longer existed. After four days, Rick had even approached him and, looking as if he was swallowing a lemon, had said he was _free to talk_ if Morty ever needed him.

That had been hilarious – but immensely worrying for Rick, who had watched with furrowed brows as Morty clutched his sides and cackled. Morty almost felt bad when the next day, Rick had brought home a new Snuffles from the pet store – in a Rick way, of course. He’d left the dog in some alleyway Morty passes on the days he walks to work, and kindly allowed Morty to keep the ‘stray’ he’d found rummaging near the trash chute. It was quite a graceful maneuver, and Morty only saw through it because Dog Breeder Morty is a regular who comes in every Friday. Apparently, selling a Snuffles to a Rick is like pulling teeth. No Rick wants to flat-out admit to spoiling their Morty. Unless you’re Miami Rick. Fuck, that guy is loaded.

It _was_ nice to have a dog again, but its intention was clear – a sliver of familiarity in their replacement home. A touching sentiment, but inaccurate.

The citadel didn’t feel like a replacement. It felt liberating.

No more disappointed glances behind his back from his parents, no more worrying about when Rick would replace him with a far more competent Summer, and no more planetary mindset. People didn’t give Morty weird looks when he used alien slang or talked about his favourite games at Blips and Chitz. He didn’t have to fumble his way through awkward conversations, or feel self-conscious about his stutter. Not when half the population consisted of his doppelgangers, and the other half could only come up with five or so original insults when they were all the same person.

Leaving the T-35 Universe was the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Of course, not everything was sunshine and roses. Sure, it’s great that he doesn’t go to school anymore, and Rick can take him on adventures whenever, but now instead of grades or a dysfunctional family, Morty has to worry about the smartasses who think they can weasel free booze out of him with a glare, just ‘cause he’s a Morty.

“Hey, more shots over here!”

“Yeah!” Morty calls over his shoulder, juggling the glasses in his hands so he can reach under the bar for one of the fifty identical bottles. He wished he could appreciate how handy it was that most Ricks ordered the same thing, but they were Ricks, so the novelty quickly wore off when customers started brawling over the stupidest shit, drunk off their asses and shots flying wide. Rick had hooked up a forcefield that shielded the bar when things got rough, so it was more a nuisance than a danger.

“Martini, one of your specialties!”

Martini Morty. That’s his new name. The first time someone had called him that instead of T-35 Morty, he hadn’t stopped smiling until he got home.

When he had first came to the citadel, he was just another dimension number, like the tourists, and the nameless Ricks without their own portal gun and the stray Mortys roaming Mortytown. Then he and Rick had settled their roots into the ground. Rick had started working the bar while Morty wiped tables and cleaned piss stains at Blood Moon, a ritzy club sitting between the well-off and full-blown luxury neighborhoods.

Morty hadn’t expected much of it – it had just been away to kill time, but then one night Rick had let him behind the bar and let Morty flit around like an excited puppy, trying out exotic blends they’d never had back on earth and serving them to his smiling Morty coworkers and skeptical Ricks – and he’d realised, his Rick was unique in his appreciation of a good cocktail, and compared other versions of himself, Morty was damn good at making them. Earning a name is basically the final initiation into becoming a local on the citadel.

Now, he and Rick worked side by side, calling out orders to the other and sliding glasses back and forth along the bar. It was nearing four in the morning, and the rush of the midnight crowd had filtered out, fortunately leaving a mass that didn’t take eight limbs and four mops to deal with.

Pausing, Morty notices one of his look-alikes still shuffling in a bar chair, leaning against the counter before sitting up straight, adjusting his feet to cross and uncross. His eyes dart around skittishly, but duck down every so often as if afraid of making eye-contact with anyone

A newbie, then.

“Hey,” He says, tapping the counter in front of him.

Newbie jumps, as if a bartender behind a bar was one of the greatest surprises. Or maybe he still hasn’t gotten used to everyone wearing the same face as him. “Me?”

“Yeah,” He says flatly, before smiling apologetically. Was this what he looked like his own first time on the citadel? “Did you want to order something?” He gestures to the Morty’s empty hands. “Hope y-y-you weren’t waiting too long. It’s hard to hear people in this place.”

That was a lie. Volume was never an issue. Rick had made him a handy set of earbuds that dulled down the music blaring from the club’s heavy speakers, while amplifying voices and other effects, so Morty could always hear customers trying to get his attention. But the white lie serves its role and makes Newbie’s shoulders ease a little.

“I-I-It’s okay.” Newbie fidgets with his fingers. “I just, um… I-I-I don’t know, what I should…”

 “Strawberry daiquiri? It’s a popular one with Mortys.” He offers, deciding to throw the poor guy a bone. Newbie nods eagerly, even though he probably has no idea what it is.

With one last smile, he turns around to pull out one of the easier rums. After the first time, he’d quickly learnt not to confuse Morty alcohol with Rick alcohol.

An elbow nudges him in the side. “Found another lost, baby duckling?”

Morty half-mindedly shoves him with his shoulder, rolling his eyes at the smirk on Rick’s face. Morty tries to hit him a second time, but Rick manages to duck in and press a small peck to Morty’s lips before backing out of range. It would have been made Morty smile, if he didn’t know why Rick was doing it. “Fuck off,” He says, swiping at Rick, who continues to laugh, but does relent and goes to take someone’s order at the end of the bar.

When Morty turns around, Newbie’s face is red like one of those crappy, artificial cherries, his eyes staring wide at Morty’s face and jaw practically dropped to the floor. Morty sighs.

Rick always teases the newbie Mortys with some PDA, earning Morty some frazzled customers, but usually they’ve seen it around the citadel before and are a little used to it, if not slightly off-put. Some are even relieved, if they’re _that_ kind of Morty, but he’s never had a newbie that has never seen it _at all_ , which, by the petrified state of Newbie, is the case today. He wonders if Newbie’s Rick wanted to go clubbing and decided it would be smart to drop his Morty straight into the deep end, at a club where Ricks and Mortys commonly hooked up. Talk about a culture shock.

“Sorry about him. He’s pretty handsy w-when work gets slow.” Morty chuckles nervously, then bites back a grimace when Newbie keeps staring at him, not even twitching at his words. _Nice going, Rick. You broke him._

 “Y-Y-You’re…” Newbie stutters, “Together?”

“Y-Yeah,” Morty answers, then feeling a tad defensive, adds on, “Plenty of us are.”

He turns around before Newbie can form a response, taking a little longer than necessary to shove all the daiquiri’s ingredients into a blender. He thought the noise might fill the silence, but somehow the awkwardness is powerful enough to sneak over the growling of the blender, making Morty shuffle on his feet as he feels Newbie’s eyes dig holes into his back. Evidently, Morty should not be head of the Welcome Wagon for Rick and Morty relationships.

“How did you..?” Newbie trails off, confusion and curiosity in his voice.

Morty relaxes. At least he’s not screaming bloody murder. “I-I just… told him, one day. And he had to be a dick about it, ‘cause he knew about my feelings before I did. He never thought I—I’d actually grow the balls to say anything.”

“…And then?” New asks hesitantly.

“We fucked.” Morty says, then feels a bit remorseful when Newbie starts spluttering.

With almost morbid interest, he asks, “And does… Every Rick…?”

“Not every Rick.” He means it as reassurance, but Newbie’s shoulders slump down in defeat, as if Morty had just crushes his hopes in one fist.

“Oh,” Morty realises, internally wincing. He sympathetically slides over the completed daiquiri with one hand. “Here, i-i-it’s on the—"

Rick gives a pointed cough behind him. “What?” He mouths back, then rolls his eyes and goes over when Rick keeps sending him silent judgement.

Poking him between the eyes, Rick not-so-quietly whispers, “Y-Y-You can’t just give out free drinks to every kicked puppy.”

The cheap asshole. “Were you listening that _entire_ time?”

“ _Morty_.”

“Come on, Rick. Boss won’t care. Besides, look at him.” He glances back at Newbie, who morosely stirs the straw in his drink. He’s never seen someone stay sad after getting a cocktail umbrella in their glass. The umbrella _always_ works.

“Boo fucking hoo. Eighty percent of the people here need a pick-me-up. Y-You don’t see me going around throwing alcohol at – at anything that moves—”

“But you—"

“It was _Ricktoberfest_ , Morty.” Sighing, Rick sets his hands on Morty’s shoulders and starts to push him aside. “Listen, I’ll go take care of it so you—you don’t have anything on your saintly conscience.”

He shoves Rick back. “Fine, I-I’ll go get the damn cash.”

“Oh, I insist.”

“W-wait,” Morty stops, blocking Rick’s path. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that you won’t charge a Morty for their fucking—”

“Cut the crap, Rick,” Morty says, finally taking in the alertness of the other man’s eyes, the way his body angles into Morty’s – protectively. Leaning in, he whispers, “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Rick murmurs back, eyes scanning the crowd. “I looked him up – he’s not there.”

“So he doesn’t have a tab. He _is_ new.” Morty points out, but starts to feel uneasy at the dangerous look in Rick’s eyes. The look he only gets when gearing up for a fight.

“Not the _tabs_ – on the ID scanner. He’s not showing up _at all_.” Rick says, brow furrowed. “He doesn’t have a dimension number.”

“Well—” Morty starts, then stops. That was weird. “So, he’s a fugitive? How’d he even get past the door?”

Frowning, Rick pushes forward again. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of it.”

“Wait, w-w-what—” He pushes against Rick’s chest with both hands, digging in his heels when he feels himself slide back. Newbie looks up from the counter at the commotion, and Morty gives him what he hopes is a disarming smile. Newbie returns it, looking a little confused, then back at his drink.

“Rick,” Morty pushes harder, then sighs when Rick leans back, crossing his arms and watching Morty with unamused eyes. “He hasn’t been any trouble. So what if it’s a little sketchy?”

“He might not be trouble, but I’m not taking chances with his Rick.” He scowls, trying to shrug off Morty’s grip.

“No, no, _babe_ —” Morty clutches Rick’s arm, leaning in to whisper, “He’s like us. I-I-I think his Rick abandoned him.”

Morty lets his shoulders ease when Rick sighs in defeat. “Fine. Y-Your little charity case can stay – but you’re paying for his drink.”

“Are you still—”

Rick dips his head into the crook of Morty’s neck and gives a slow lick up his jawline. “Not with money.”

“Okay,” Morty agrees faintly, a shiver running down his back when Rick chuckles low against his ear and nibbles the lobe gently. From a nearby table, a rowdy group whistles and hollers at them and Morty jumps back with red cheeks, even as Rick groans in protest.

“No Morty should have reason to hide on the Citadel. Stay on your guard,” Rick warns, before backing away. He hops over the bar with one arm and goes over to the table, joining in with other Ricks’ antics and doing that weird handshake thing that Morty’s fingers are too short for. Morty can’t help the fond smile that inches onto his face, even if Rick is slacking off.

It turns into a frown, however, when he turns to Newbie’s seat and sees a Rick chatting him up, a familiar black tattoo creeping up his wrist.

Newbie is sitting ramrod straight, his entire body leaning as far as possible to the right without falling off his stool. The Rick crowds against him with one arm resting on the bar, and it makes Morty grit his teeth. He wasn’t letting S-24 anywhere near a fresh Morty – especially one that possibly has a rocky relationship with his own Rick.

He gets a cocky salute when he marches up to them. “The usual for me. And another for my Morty.”

“I know he’s not your Morty, S-24,” Morty grinds out.

“Aw, don’t—don’t get jealous, babe,” S-24 winks at him. “I still think you’re cute.”

Pointedly turning to Newbie, Morty asks, “Is he bothering you?”

It’s obviously true, but he needs Newbie to confirm it to call security on S-24 with a valid excuse, or the bouncer Ricks would just make a few jabs at him and go back to whatever the hell they did. God, he wishes Buff Morty had a shift tonight. He would chuck any Rick out the door, no questions asked – sometimes he’d toss out a random Rick just for shits and giggles. Morty can’t blame him. If he was jacked up on steroids he’d probably do the same.

 “Uh,” Newbie fumbles, but Morty takes it as authentication and gives S-24 a hard stare.

“Fine,” S-24 says amicably, making to slide off his bar stool—Morty tenses. Whatever he has planned can’t be good, which is definitely the case when S-24 casually throws out, “Your Rick really has a tight leash on you, huh?”

Newbie straightens up. “What?”

“Y-Y-You came out here to have fun, didn’t you?” S-24 asks, voice a low croon that sends a disgusted shiver down Morty’s spine. “It’s a shame your Rick won’t let you. It’s why I-I-I had to help you sneak in, right?”

“My Rick doesn’t control me. I-I-I can do whatever the hell I want,” Newbie argues, and Morty almost face-palms. Of course Newbie would fall for the bait.

He opens his mouth, ready to placate Newbie, but S-24 cuts him off with a smirk, saying, “Then why don’t you indulge me? One drink.”

For a second, Newbie pauses, as if realising what he just got himself into—and Morty dares to hope that he’ll back down—

“Unless you can’t handle a little alcohol. Sure y-you don’t wanna call your Rick?”

—And Newbie tilts his chin up and says, as if it were a rebellion, “Fine. Buy me a drink.”

“Jesus christ,” Morty mutters under his breath, as he turns to get the bottle that S-24 orders with a smug snap of his fingers. Mortys really were fucking idiots. He feels like one of those adults who grow up and realise how stupid teenagers are.

A lot of Mortys were baited into getting shitfaced by Ricks – it happened all the time, with how pliable Mortys are, and how devious the Ricks are, but S-24 is _dangerous_. All Ricks are, but most had a _line_.

Not a line of morals like normal people had, that divided good and bad, because that doesn’t work with Ricks. They’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want. Manipulation, theft, murder. Morally, Ricks have no line—they do however, have a line that separates the wide, blank field of strangers and false friends, from those safe from his destructive path, relatively. Birdperson, Beth, etcetera. And by an unspoken agreement, other Ricks and Mortys, if only to avoid a full-blown interdimensional war.

And atop a gilded throne, always, _always_ their Morty.

S-24 did not have a line, and Morty suspects it was erased the day S-24 Morty was on the list of deceased from the destruction of the first Citadel.

He pours the shots with eyes fixed on Newbie, trying to send the message of _Don’t do this, just wait for your Rick to come back and work things out, you don’t need to prove anything_ —but S-24 is keeping his attention with a hand stroking his wrist, another splayed on his thigh. Newbie stares down at where their fingers meet with half extreme discomfort and half fiery determination. Morty feels like he’s witnessing a particularly painful game of Gay Chicken—

He needs to start cleaning up the bar. It’s almost closing time, and Rick never likes staying too late afterwards.

He picks himself up off the ground and slides behind the bar, and begins to wipe down the bar for stray drops and cup marks. This night must have been pretty hard—there are Ricks and Mortys passed out on the floor—way more than usual—slowly picking themselves back up. Some make for the exit, but most carry on dancing or drinking, or whatever the hell they were up to, as if they hadn’t just blacked out two minutes ago. Well, go big or go home, right?

Someone left a half-finished daiquiri. Fighting a scowl, Morty picks it up and rinses out the glass in the sink. Who didn’t finish a perfectly good daiquiri?

“Rick,” He murmurs into the comm with annoyance. “Can you come help me clean up now?”

When he doesn’t get a response, he looks over at the table with an irritated sigh—it catches in his throat when he can’t see his Rick among them. He should be easy to pick out in his black and red uniform. He was definitely there a few minutes ago—

—" _Stay on your guard.”_

Groaning, Morty rubs his temple. This headache kills—He can’t wait for his shift to end. “Rick?” Morty says again, nervously.

No response.

Hopping over the counter, he marches over to where the Ricks are erupting with drunken laughter, swaying in their seats and cracking obscure science jokes that fly over Morty’s head.

“Hey! Have you—"

He’s about to make demands after his Rick when chaos erupts at the entrance to the club, people shouting and hollering—customers jump out of their seats and stumble over and Morty roll his eyes when he realises another fight’s broken out. He’s almost trampled when all the Ricks get up and blunder over, making non-sensical bets about who will win.

He tries to make his way over too, but the crowd is too dense and all he can do is wince as he hears the grunts and punches thrown, the tipsy crowd cheering its approval every time.

It’s unsettling, this entire thing, but it _shouldn’t_ be. Fights are a regular occurrence. Nothing to worry about, but, this doesn’t feel _regular_ , this feels like—like a _distraction_ —

“Rick,” He whispers urgently into the comm once more, and he can’t even hear his own voice over the noise around him, loud and obnoxious cheering and laughter as whatever situation outside is dissolved with a clear winner.

There’s a sudden jerk in the flow of the crowd, people losing interest and settling down. A few stragglers remain, slouched over tables and on the dance floor while the rest squeeze through to the exit as they leave with the night. He picks out his Rick coming towards him and lets out a relieved breath.

“Have you had your fun?” Morty asks dryly, even as he brushes his hand against Rick’s to calm his own nerves. Rick indulges him, grabbing his hand and stroking his wrist with a soothing thumb.

— _He’s like us. I-I-I think his Rick abandoned him.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” He sighs. “So sorry for leaving you at—at such a _busy_ hour.”

Rick only chuckles lightly when Morty slaps him on the arm. “Asshole. W-W-What happened anyway?”

Snorting, Rick answers, “S-24 again. Tried to pick a fight with the bouncers – while drunk off his ass. Didn’t w-work out too well for him, but it was funny as shit to watch.”

Morty feels his stomach drop. “S-24?”

_—Don’t get jealous, babe—I still think you’re cute.”_

“Yeah,” Rick frowns. “The shitwad who always hits on you. Dragon tattoo on the wrist?”

“But…” Morty denies with confusion. “S-24 is already here! He’s with—”

_"Found another lost, baby ducking?”_

Newbie.

His head whips around to Newbie’s spot. Both seats are empty.

“Baby, hey,” Rick tilts Morty’s chin back to him, eyes glancing over his face with concern. “Don’t worry. I-I-I won’t let him take a fucking step near you.”

“No!” Morty protests. “Are you sure it was S-24 out there? No one else, y-y-you’re confident?”

“Morty, yes, I’m sure.” Rick answers, voice low as if trying to calm a spooked animal. Maybe that’s what he sounds like, Morty can’t tell, not over the anxiety building in every nerve of his body. Something’s happening, something’s wrong—

If S-24 was out there, then who—

“Morty, what’s wrong? What are you looking for—”

“Newbie, did you see where Newbie went?” Morty asks desperately, head turning to scan every body in the crowd – but the night is ending and customers are stumbling out the exit in an indistinguishable mass. It’s impossible to pick out Newbie’s shy mannerisms among so many other Mortys.

“What newbie? _Oh_ ,” Rick wraps his arms around him, smiling reassuringly against his hair. “So you found another lost, baby duckling? Don’t worry so much, babe. I’m sure y-y-your newbie’ll find his way home just fine.” Pressing a chaste peck to his temple, Rick adds, “And next time, let me know when a newbie comes in. I wanted to fuck with ‘em.”

 _But you already did,_ Morty wants to say.

Instead, he forces himself to ease the grip on Rick’s hands— _when had he even grabbed on_ —and smiles, a little unsteadily. “Sorry, I just, I-I-I guess I just, overreacted, huh?”

“I-It’s an endearing quality,” Rick reassures, but Morty feels like he’s hearing the words underwater, muffled and distant.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Morty says, “Just to clear my head.”

“Don’t be too long,” Rick says, giving up _too easily_ – he would never gloss over a hiccup like this, he’s too paranoid, too smart, and he knows every trick conceived in this reality – time loops, identity fraud, memory manipulation—

_Someone did something to his Rick._

He pushes through the flowing crowd, standing up on his toes and eyes alert. “Hey,” He calls, seeing one of the bouncer Ricks idly watching the crowd from the side. Tank top Rick. He leans against the wall with arms crossed, defined muscles barely contained by the black shirt he wears.

His eyes lazily follow Morty as he approaches. “I’m not helping clean up. I got shit to do.”

“Did y-y-you see S-24 tonight?” Morty asks, insides buzzing unpleasantly.

The Rick snorts. “Tried to sneak in five minutes ago. I tossed that fucker to the curb.”

“And he didn’t get in? Are y-you sure he only showed up _five minutes ago_?”

“Hmm, golly gee, I-I-I don’t know. I _just said_ he failed to sneak in five minutes ago.”

“Jesus, okay,” Morty rolls his eyes, but can’t even muster up a hint of annoyance when his entire being is screaming at him— wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —

He’s at the back exit, he realises somewhere in the muddle of his mind. Morty drops his hand down. He had been one second from pushing it open. What the hell is he doing here—? He doesn’t even remember walking over—

A sharp crash from outside. It could just be a couple drunks, screwing around with the dumpster.

—But not tonight. Not after a no-name Morty and an imposter Rick.

He pushes open the door, thankful from the bottom of his heart that Rick always sneaks him out here for quickies, because now he knows how to push the handle without the obnoxious clicking noise.

Two voices are in a heated argument—which is a good thing, because they don’t notice the swell of the music as Morty slips through the door and gently closes it behind him.

“—Do you have any idea how fucking stupid it was to come here? Can y-y-you register that inside your fucking peanut brain?”

“I-I-I’m sorry, I thought you wouldn’t notice with how much you’ve been avoiding me—"

“W-W-What so this was a fucking _temper tantrum_? ‘Cause grandpa hasn’t been paying attention to you? We are _not_ on good terms with the citadel, _Morty_ – they shouldn’t even know you exist! Y-Y-You’re damn _lucky_ only one Rick realised who you were, or your head would be on a fucking stick.”

“I-I-I can take care of myself, Rick! People try to kill me on a daily basis.”

“You think a _Rick_ would have been that merciful? News flash, Morty. He wasn’t going to kill you, he was gonna string you up and fucking torture you within an inch of your life! He would’ve fucking burned you alive!”

Holding his breath, Morty starts to creep away from the door. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground and tip toes over the wrappers and glass shards littering the alley, keeping in the shadows until he can duck behind the dumpster. Peeking around, he sees the silhouettes of a Rick and Morty, their shadows creeping long across the ground like snakes.

The Morty’s hands are clenched, his entire frame wound tight—and Morty just _knows_. This is Newbie. Newbie and his Rick.

“Well I—I took him down, didn’t I?”

“W-Wow, Morty. Y-You can throw a decent punch? I think what’s more impressive is how y-y-you rewrote his memories, and gave him a mild sedative, and sent him on his merry way without suspicion. I-I-I guess you were _also_ the one who hacked into the Citadel databases to hide your identity, and blocked off our dimension so other Ricks can’t portal in on a fucking witch hunt, and wiped the memories of everyone in this _shithole_ so no one would remember that the Morty from _fucking C-137 dropped in.”_

_C-137._

Reeling back, Morty cowers deeper into the corner, suddenly hyper-aware of the sound of his breathing, his heart thudding against his ribcage, a chill soaking through his body as he realises just how dangerous a situation he was in right now. Holy shit. _Holy shit_. The Rogues were _five m_ eters away from him.

“—Oh, w-w-wait a minute, that was _me_. You’re welcome. Now come on.”

“I’m not going anywhere until y-y-you, you _talk_ to me, Rick—We haven't been on an adventure since Xytar—y-y-you don’t hang out with me, hell—you don’t even  _look_ at me. Ever since… that night—"

“ _Drop it_ , Morty.”

“What did I do _wrong_?”

“Y-Y-You _assumed_. That’s where you—you went _wrong_. You think one night and we’d get married? I-I-I’ve hooked up with aliens that outshine you like a fucking _sun_ , Morty. I’ve invented interdimensional travel, I-I-I can move through time, I’ve conquered entire planets for fun —I-I-I’ve won every game someone plays against me – I _own_ this whole fucking universe, Morty! Y-Y-You honestly think after all that, a moronic dipshit like you could hold _any_ significance to me?”

There’s a ringing, injured silence after words, as if they had cut through the air and left a deep and bloody wound across the alleyway. Morty waits for Newbie – _C-137 Morty_ – to start tearing up at the harsh taunts, waits for the Rick to back-track his words and soothe his Morty, because when he and his Rick fight, that’s exactly what happens–

But the silence drags on, and Morty is reminded that they are nothing like him and his Rick. Rogue Morty would never crumble in the path of his Rick’s fury, nor would this Rick apologize and coddle him.

He’s not sure if he admires them or pities them.

The warbling of a portal vibrates in the air, just for a split second as someone makes a hasty escape. Morty almost worries that C-137 Morty will be left stranded here, but—

“Hey—I gave you that for emergencies, Morty! Not so you could fuck off w-when-whenever your feelings got hurt!”

—And C-137 Rick and him are the only ones left in the alleyway.

The silence is no longer charged with aggression. It’s turned still, and eerie.

Then it’s pierced by the sharp shot of a bullet aimed next to Morty’s foot.

“ _Shit_!” He yelps, jumping back, then clamps a hand over his mouth to silence himself—but he knows the damage has already been done.

Dread pooling in his stomach, he rises from his hiding place.

The Rogue is standing there, gun loosely held in his hand. The lazy, self-assured posture that once looked so endearing on his own Rick, is worn by C-137 like tiger stripes—bold and threatening. A predator. The shadows of the night cast over his face, making it look like he has dark and empty sockets instead of eyes.

He looks like a demon.

“ _Don’t_.” Rogue says sharply, and Morty forces himself to relax his muscles, wounded tight as he had prepared to sprint for the door. It was stupid anyway. He can’t outrun a bullet.

“Please,” He begs, backing away against the wall as the Rick steps closer, gun trained and steady.

He’s not above begging for his life. He’s not a Rick, after all. There has to be something—even Rogue is still a Rick, surely there’s some way to appeal to him, even if he wasn’t _Morty’s_ Rick—

—And oh god, _Rick_ —Morty can’t die here, Rick wouldn’t be able to handle it.

In a sudden burst of courage, he ducks down and lunges at Rogue, charging him dead on and making a wide grab for the gun. He feels the surprise in Rogue’s frame, feels the sharp twist of pain when his arm is grabbed and bent too far—

—Feels it in the air when the ground he’s gained falls beneath him, Rogue quickly re-asserting his balance and jabbing the gun into his side—a punishing shot going straight into his side—

Nothing happens.

Morty yanks himself back, tumbling to the ground—but unharmed. Where there should be a bleeding hole in his torso, a blue forcefield of light glows against his skin.

“W-Well, aren’t you a pampered shit.”

With trembling hands, Morty prods the buzzing light, remembering that summer day when Rick had called him into the garage. The garage door had been left just one-foot open so the breeze could drift in occasionally, the buzz of cicadas and the thrum of the neighbour’s lawnmower. Morty had spent eight hours whining and complaining to Rick as the scientist poked a needle into every cell he had as if giving him a full body tattoo. Rick had told him to shut up and suck it up, but when he had finished, the sun having already fallen and they sat with only the desk lamp for light and the sound of grass humming in the wind, he’d covered every inch of Morty’s body in tender kisses, leaving Morty breathless and pliant, and promised that he’d never let anyone hurt him.

How could Morty have ever doubted him?

“I-I-I’m assuming that’s the reason why this didn’t work either.”

Morty looks up. Rogue is holding up a memory gun to the sparse light available, the two coils alight with blue. After staring at the gentler light of his own Rick’s invention, the harsh light of Rogue’s memory gun is almost too strong to look at, leaving dark imprints on Morty’s eyes—

—It’s—It’s, Morty thinks, and _remembers_ —Newbie leaving with S-24 through the back door and trying to follow them—and a portal opening dead-center in the building when the security should make that _impossible_ —A Rick coming through and following after them, dropping a small, metal ball behind him. It had seeped red gas into the room, the doors had been locked, the ventilation turned off, and Morty remembers Rick holding him close, desperately, and pressing a wet cloth against his mouth and nose, murmuring a fast list of commands to a security system that never responded as one by one the bodies dropped—

Then he woke up, everyone had woken up, and they’d all gone resumed their lives, _oblivious_.

“Y-Y-You have a fancy, little chip in your skull, to protect you against shit like this.” Rogue says, waving around the memory gun. For a second, Morty’s surprised he’s bothering to explain it, but then he remembers that every Rick is used to spelling out stuff for a Morty. It’s wired into their habits, like instinct.

Rogue comes closer, and Morty tries to back away once more but his back is already flat against the rough brick behind him. Rogue leans down, a foreign and metal gadget in his hand. Then quickly, his hand darts out, and he stabs it right behind Morty’s ear.

Yelping at the prick of pain, like a needle—Morty reaches up to protectively cover the spot, but Rogue has already backed away, holding in his hand a slightly bloody, beeping chip. He drops it and crushes it under his shoe, as if the hard metal and wires were tinfoil.

“You—You know, I counted on Ricks to have ‘em, but—a Morty? Your Rick is one w-whipped son of a bitch. Got it _real_ bad.”

“Does your Morty have one?” Morty asks, the words drawn from his throat even as he already knows the answer.

“No,” Rogue says, aiming the memory gun at Morty’s forehead.

Ricks have always been shit liars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big update today! I really feel like I improved my writing in the past two months so I hope it was worth the wait :) And thanks for all the kudos and comments! You guys are amazing!


	4. The Citadel

~

“Morty, another pussy wants the daiquiri,” Rick calls over his shoulder, unbothered by the Morty’s splutter.

As he pours out shots, he rummages through his mind for a new absurd excuse to why he can’t do it himself, other than the fact that they’re a bitch to make and he’s lazy. He’s sure Morty will have a sour face no matter what he says, but it’s always fun to see the first second of confusion on Morty’s face, instinctually believing whatever comes out of Rick’s mouth, before he sees through the blatant lie and yells at Rick for distracting him.

Broken arms, maybe? He could even pop his cybernetic limbs out of place. Morty always forgets he has them and has a fit whenever they get blown off on adventures, fluttering around him with gauze and serums and looking so hopelessly dumb-founded when he can’t find any blood. A smile twitches on the edge of his lips. Broken arms, then.

Or maybe not. Morty hasn’t replied over the comms, so he’s either swarmed on his side of the bar or getting tired of Rick’s shit. Either way, he’s confident he’ll at least get one of his boyfriend’s reluctant, exasperated smiles, and half-considers detaching the arm entirely and throwing it just to see Morty’s reaction when it comes flying his way.

“Hey, Morty—” He turns, then freezes. “Morty?”

“Yeah?”

“Not _you_ , you fucking idiot,” Rick says half-mindedly. He sees the Morty roll his eyes in the corner of his vision, but pays it no mind, focused on searching—his favourite spot by the window, the route he takes to the bathroom, the table he always stops by to chat with his friends—but Morty never leaves without letting him know, his mind whispers to him.

“Ha fucking ha,” Rick mutters into the comm. “Y-Y-You’re so cute. Now, where the hell are you?”

The room is loud with music and chatter, but the stubborn silence seems to wash over all of it. Rick sighs.

“You better be taking a shit,” He threatens, pulling up his sleeve to open his watch interface. The blue images flicker to life and Rick waves his hands through it, pulling up the fittingly-dubbed, _Dipshit Monitor_.

None of the alarms have gone off. Morty’s vitals are normal, and there haven’t been any red-flagged enemies in proximity—but he’s not sure how much he can trust it, considering it already proved it was prone to hacking two weeks ago.

Rick really needs to get Morty’s head checked, because somehow the moron passed by a _Level 5 enemy_ and _didn’t realise_ —Rick wouldn’t have known either, if he hadn’t run a manual diagnostic and found it had been temporarily disabled.

When Rick questioned him about it, Morty thought he was being accused of having an affair. He started blubbering out reassurances and declarations of love, and Rick forgot to follow through with the concern, too distracted laughing his ass off. Perhaps the accusatory, “So, have you seen anyone I should know about,” had been a little too vague.

The tracker, it says Morty should be right—

He turns to look at the empty space beside him. Whelp. He really needs to stop putting all these fixes on the back-burner.

Normally, he would roll his eyes and sigh, resigning himself to a sleepless night of tracking, only fueled by the incentive of a thank-you blow job after rescuing the damsel in distress from whoever promised free candy.

But this was the Citadel. As fucked as the place was, it managed to survive on the unspoken agreement between Ricks—to leave their Mortys out of it. Someone has broken that rule, someone intelligent enough to infiltrate his defenses. It could only be another Rick, and even as his trigger finger twitches and the blood-lust seeps into his veins, Rick knows he must be smart about this.

First order of business. “Sorry,” Rick says, not sounding at all sorry. “No one can make your daiquiri—”

The seat is empty.

Huh.

~

“I’m not your fucking _secretary_ —”

“Do we have a _single drop_ of coffee in this place—”

“Where’s the printer—Do we even _have_ one—”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Rick snaps, letting out a small, relieved sigh when the fumbling idiots actually listen. God knows he wouldn’t. “How many Ricks still have their Morty?”

As a response, Rick gets blank silence and shifted eyes. “ _No one_? Who was responsible for dimension counts?”

One Rick points at another. “It was P72-alpha-3.”

“Fuck you _pal_ —that was your job but you were too busy crying in the janitor closet—”

“I _wasn’t_ _crying_ —”

“Then what—were you cutting some fucking onions—”

Groaning, Rick presses his forehead against his clasped hands. Whiny, sniveling, incompetent _children_ —“Then both of you can organise reports for Citadel residents. _Quickly_. And you—” He points at a random Rick. “Pick a few people and go dimension hopping. Find out if this is happening to more outside the Citadel.”

They nod their heads like scolded puppies and open portals, jumping through. Rick almost pats himself on the back for getting rid of that headache, but then he sees ten more Ricks staring at him expectantly and feels many, many more approaching.

“The police are having an investigation. They’ll be taking care of any concerns relating to the disappearances.” Rick humours them—he has no idea. He just hopes whoever’s in charge of that is as competent as him, and unfortunately, based on the headless chickens around him, that isn’t very likely. Either way, he’s not at all sorry for pushing all the responsibility on those poor fuckers.

“Have them release a statement with all the usual bullcrap—don’t panic, go about your day, yada yada.”

One Rick goes off, task given, but the rest stay. Watch him expectantly.

“What?” He snaps.

One brave individual steps forward with a clipboard in hand. “I represent Simple Rick Snack Foods. We’re short on staff because of the disappearances and need—”

Rick squeezes his eyes shut. “You think I care about your fucking _cookies_?”

“Our company belongs to Rick D. Sanchez III—a member of the Shadow Council—”

“Then where the hell is he?” Rick snaps. He gestures around at the empty seats beside him. “And where the hell is everyone else?”

“—Don’t answer that,” He cuts off when the Rick opens his mouth, then closes it once more. “I’ll tell you where they are. Moping around in baths of champagne like little pussies. I’m the only member that’s here right now—so if _I say_ something doesn’t matter, _it doesn’t matt_ er. End of discussion.”

The room resounds with silence after his words, and the satisfaction barely sets into his bones for a job well done before—

“But what are we going to eat?” One Rick cries.

Rick almost chews him out for being an idiot, but it seems he’s the not the only one that feels that way, because the entire crowd dissolves once more into panic.

Rick holds his head in his hands and, unheard beneath the flurry of concerns, moans out, “ _Food_. Normal fucking _food_.”

~

The elevator opens with a ding, and Rick steps through. The silence of his penthouse is a welcome change from the chaos of the Citadel headquarters, the polished wood floors and tidy arrangement as a familiar embrace.

He slips out of his dress shoes and shrugs off his blazer, hanging it over a chair as he walks into the kitchen. Pulls out a random bottle from the cupboard and takes a long, drawn-out sip. Sighs. What a day.

With the Mortys gone, not only was the Citadel missing half of its population, but all of the Citadel’s _babysitters_.

A truth that no Rick wants to admit—Ricks may have the highest IQ among living organisms, but when it comes to taking care of themselves, they have the competence of a two-year old. A two-year old with all its limbs cut off and a severe, untreated case of cerebral palsy.

They don’t eat properly, they don’t get enough sleep, and their favoured coping mechanism for their crippling depression is an equally crippling alcohol addiction.

Mortys reeled them in. Balanced them out.

Best of all, Ricks were always so occupied with impressing their Morty, like dogs in a rut desperate to mount, that it distracted them from the more dangerous aspects of having too many—horribly competitive—Ricks in close proximity. Now all the little shits were gone, leaving behind an army of loose cannons.

Rick loosens his tie and undoes his cuffs. Rolls out the tension in his shoulders, as he does every night. The sacred ritual that has formed in his habits—a reliable pattern of his own making—it was the only way he could keep his sanity in a place like the Citadel.

The home of a hundred million pandering idiots. Not exclusively Mortys.

It wasn’t hypocritical for him to call them out on it. Really—after all, he may be a Rick, but he didn’t have a Morty for that exact reason.

Mortys made Ricks emotional. And emotions made a Rick painfully, pathetically, _weak_.

Ricks were supposed to be as close to gods as humans could get. That isn’t arrogance speaking, it’s simply the truth. Each of them have earned the title—conquered the universe’s every law, mastering them and manipulating its ways for even the most redundant of reasons. Even mortality—the one final barrier—only still existed because Ricks weren’t so stupid as to rule out the option entirely.

Ricks are supposed to be self-sufficient, quick-witted, and most of all, shouldn’t need their moronic excuse for a grandson to wipe their asses and spoon-feed them cough medicine.

They shouldn’t need to _rely_ on anyone else, and yet they do—and in the process, lose what makes all of them Ricks.

Of course, Mortys were useful for menial, tedious tasks—but to actually care about one? To seek validation in a smile, or act irrationally, for foolish _love_ of all things? Sometimes, he feels like he’s the only real Rick around.

He pulls out vegetables and bottles from the fridge, realising with a grimace that with four out of five business out of commission, he won’t have his groceries delivered to his door anymore. He’ll have to portal out and buy more tomorrow—manually.

“What a nuisance,” He mutters, and he’s talking about more than the groceries.

It’s not that he hates Mortys—honestly, he prefers them. They do what he tells them to, no questions asked, with blind trust in his authority. Saves him a headache. What he hates is having to watch all those Ricks—who should be just as competent as him—devolve into a bunch of pussy-whipped bastards.

A Morty will be a Rick’s downfall. Today is a textbook example of the fact.

But today has also made him realise, if this is the alternative, then perhaps having Ricks dependent on Mortys isn’t all that bad. Not even a full day since the disappearances, and Rick already wants to shoot himself in the head.

Why did he become part of the Shadow Council again? Oh yeah—because he owned all of the Citadel’s drugs and alcohol industries, and wanted to bump some elbows on the vote for banning karbonix powder. Turns out, it had been a flat _hell no_ from everyone else too—they were all Ricks, after all—so he hadn’t even needed that influence in the first place.

He’d already been added, however, and now he just uses his position to get out of parking tickets, and on one particular occasion, managed to convince everyone that yes, a sixty-foot tall disco ball in the foyer was absolutely necessary, and yes, they should use tax dollars to fund that project.

He never thought the day would come when he actually needed to _do_ something.

The elections couldn’t come sooner—the relief that comes with the thought is immediately diminished, when he remembers that whoever’s declared the first president of the Citadel is just going to fuck around and kiss babies while they run the show behind the curtains. Maybe _he_ should run for president.

He's too tired to make anything more than a simple salad with a fried chicken breast, but as he dishes out his plate, realises with aching disappointment that it’s probably far more than any other Rick can do themselves. He feels ashamed on their behalves.

Walking over to the dining table, he absently calls out into the dimness of the apartment, “Hey, have you—”

Rick stops. The darkness stares back. Of course, he wouldn’t be here for his shift—

Looks down at his hands, holding two plates.

He turns back into the kitchen. Dumps out the second plate’s contents with a smooth slide of his fork, and sets it in the sink.

It was just a habit. Rick is a creature of habit, he _wasn’t_ —it was just a habit to have dinner together, is all. The poor fuck stays until dark, so Rick always feeds him before he goes.

It’s the break in habit that’s throwing him off. Nothing else.

Silently—not even giving a thought to that glaring space sitting opposite from him—Rick sits down, and eats.

~

“No, no—I wanted _you_ to make the statement. I told him to tell _you_ to do it.”

“—But he told us to tell you to make the—”

“Why would _I_ tell him to tell you to tell _me_ —” Rick sighs, rubs at his temples. “And why—why would the Shadow Council, a _secret_ part of the government, make a _public_ statement?”

“Hey pal, I’m just delivering the message—”

“That wasn’t even the message to _begin_ with,” Rick groans. Trust a bunch of Ricks to mess up a simple game of Telephone. Fuck he missed the Morty receptionists.

“Well, that’s what was written down. Get back to us after you release that statement.”

“ _No_. _You’re_ the _ones_ —Just release a fucking statement. _You_ , the law enforcement.” Rick snaps, before hanging up the phone and tossing it on the table. “Jesus fucking christ.”

“Sir,” A Rick approaches hesitantly from among the crowd. “Here’s that coffee you asked for.”

“I didn’t ask for a—” Rick pauses. Closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “That was yesterday.”

“It took a while to figure out how to—Usually the Morty assistants take care of it,” He fumbles, as if it’s a valid excuse for why a group of geniuses—who invented _interdimensional travel_ —don’t know how to work a fucking coffee maker. Their incompetency was stretching too far to be believable—but, Rick supposed, they _were_ just disposable minor characters with the sole purpose of comedy.

“Give it here,” He reaches out a hand. Looks down at the mug with a frown, eyeing the dark colour. “No cream?”

Everyone in the room freezes.

“Never mind,” Rick sighs in defeat. He takes a sip and grimaces once more. No sugar either. And it’s definitely not his artisan roasted, AA graded coffee beans—too watery, not rich enough. He hopes to whatever god that’s listening they didn’t just pick up an instant-pack from the corner store.

Fortunately, he’s desperate enough to chug the whole thing just to have the brief oasis of a caffeine rush, even as it leaves a bad after-taste in his mouth. Did no one know how to do a good coffee in this place?

_“It’s funny, I-I-I didn’t take you for a cream and sugar kind of guy, sir. Want some marshmallows too?”_

_“Yeah, you’re real funny. File those papers.”_

_“Yes sir.”_

_“And wipe that stupid fucking grin off your face.”_

_“Of course, sir.”_

“Sir?”

“What?” Rick snarls.

“The…” The Rick edges, “The reports are in for registered dimensions. All of them are gone.”

“Let’s see,” He gestures, and the Rick hands over the tablet. He swipes through idly, eyes glancing over the identical pictures and data. If every Morty was taken—the rich, the poor, the average and the anomalies—how were they supposed to find a pattern?

“What about Mortys that don’t have a Rick?”

“Gone too,” The Rick says with a grimace.

Rick hums, scrolls through more profiles, then pauses. Presses the small search bar and types in, _GP-874._

A Morty’s profile pops up with the same, routine information, and under his dimensions number, the large red letters of _MISSING_.

Rick’s eyes linger on his picture, on the edge of his mouth curling up in a repressed smile, the glint of humour in his eyes. The collar of a white shirt just slightly askew, peeking out from underneath a dark blue blazer. A monkey suit, he had called it.

_“—Like the monkeys in the circus, you know? Put a little tuxedo on them and make ‘em dance.”_

_“You are aware you just called yourself a monkey?”_

_“A very_ pampered _monkey. Can you buy me a new phone too?”_

_“Don’t push it.”_

“Not my Morty,” Rick mutters, reminding himself. He places the tablet onto the smooth wood of the table and slides it away.

He was surrounded by incompetents. He just wanted to check—he wasn’t _worried_ , or anything. And it was hard to come by a reliable Morty. If he was dead, Rick would have to go through the trouble of babysitting another one until a sufficient personal assistant.

Rick’s just making sure they know to look for him, with the same professional distance as any other concerned employer.

He grimaces. In his head, a grating, familiar voice chimes, _denial isn’t just a river in Egypt!_ Rick can practically see his shit-eating grin. It’s not even a clever pun. It’s not even funny.

Shit, he’s in denial, isn’t he? He misses the stupid fuck.

The door bashes open. “Sir!”

A Guard Rick leans against the wall, clutching a bleeding wound in his side.

“What the hell _happened_?” Rick grabs his gun, stands up as adrenaline fills his veins.

Fucking great—what’s happening now? Some kind of riot? Honestly, he’s kind of surprised it took this long for the Citadel to burst into flames—but he’s still not looking forward the massive shit stain he’ll have to clean up.

“He’s—he’s—” A shot rings in the air—Rick blinks and there’s a neat bullet hole in the Rick’s skull, gushing blood as he slumps to his knees.

Rick winces. They’ll have to get the carpet cleaners in once this shit is over.

A foot kicks the body aside. A Rick stalks in, shoots the guards across the room without a glance.

Steps forward, hops onto the table. Marches his way over, and squats down to be at eye level with him. Grins, shark-like.

“Hello sir,” he greets. The grin widens, baring white teeth. “So, where’s my Morty?”

And that’s how—just when Rick thought things couldn’t get worse—the fucking Rogue decides to show up.

~

“How did one Rick manage to barge through the front door, guns blazing and running around the place like a maniac—and _win_?” Rick yells into the face of one of the few Guard Ricks lined up.

“Sir—” The Rick gulps, standing straight and stiff. “It’s—it’s the Rogue we’re talking—”

“I don’t care if it was fucking Ophrah!” Rick shouts. “ _Someone got in_. If all it takes to walk in here is a few bullets and a big heap of self-confidence, what the _hell_ are you getting paid for?”

“Hey, take it easy on ‘em.”

He turns to glare at the Captain, who glares back. Beside them, the Guard Ricks stand in a neat line, not a toe sticking out of place.

“ _Easy_? They’re the first line of defense for the Citadel Headquarters. If that’s your golden word, then it’s no wonder they’re so sloppy.”

“We’re being run ragged,” The Captain growls. “A third of our force were Mortys. And half of our Ricks aren’t showing up. Crime’s at an all time high—we’ve got guards working over-time to keep it from getting out of hand, and the rest of them are volunteering in their own time to help the police’s search parties.”

“If they’re so busy, they can focus on _their_ job, and let the police do _theirs_ —"

“This may be difficult for a cold-hearted bastard like you to understand, but my soldiers want their Mortys _back_. Every one of them has lost their Morty, and no one knows if they’re being held hostage, or fucking _dead_. So how about I worry about them, and _you_ can worry about that shrivelled fucking prune you call a _heart_.”

“Oof—he’s got you there, sir. Need a band-aid?”

“Shut up,” Rick tells him. Rogue grins at him from where he lounges at the head of the table, slumped down in the plush chair with his feet kicked up.

The Captain watches the scene darkly. “And do something about that guy, before I put a bullet in his head.”

“You can do whatever you want with him,” Rick promises. “As soon as we learn what he knows.”

The captain sends one last glare down the table, before turning and stepping out, the line of Citadel guards following after him.

“Pretty cushy place you got,” Rogue observes, spinning around in the chair and looking up at the ceiling mural of numerous cherub Ricks, vaguely resembling the painting found in Rome’s Sistine Chapel. Rick jokingly suggested it at one of their slower meetings, but turns out, people _actually_ _wanted it_ , and now he has to see his naked ass everyday whenever he looks up.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Rick says, placing his palms against the table and staring him down. “The only reason you don’t have a bullet in your head is because I know you’ve taken them. Where are the Mortys?”

Rogue snorts. “Mine’s gone too, dipshit.”

“And I suggest you talk,” Rick grits out, “Before my generosity expires. I’m the one keeping you out of cuffs right now—just _barely_ , mind you.”

“I’m pretty sure that favour’s more for them than for me,” Rogue points out.

Rick looks around at the remaining Ricks, nods his head towards the door. “Leave.”

They step out, the two guards closing the doors with one last glance at him. The ornate, carved wood shuts with a heavy thud.

Reaching inside his blazer, Rick tosses the small, metal disc he finds onto the table. It blinks twice.

Rogue leans forward to examine it with a smile. “Horribly unethical, sir.”

“There are two hundred and fourteen bugs in this room. Some are ours, but most aren’t. Besides,” He meets Rogue’s cutting gaze. “I don’t think anyone else needs to hear this, no?”

 “Of course.” Rogue agrees, then stares at him searchingly. “You know I didn’t do it.”

Ricks nods half-mindedly, pulling out his chair and sitting down. They’re on opposite ends of the table, separated by the long stretch of mahogany wood. The arching window lets orange light seep through, and Rogue sits in its shadow, lounging in his chair as if it were a throne. Rick folds his fingers together and presses them to his lips. Thinks.

Rogue doesn’t like the Citadel. That simple fact is the dead give-away of his innocence. He couldn’t be the one responsible for the kidnappings, because no matter what power he desired, what leverage or influence he wanted, Rogue is too smart to willingly sign himself up for a pain in the ass like this. Which in turn, reveals the reason he’s come at all—because there’s only one thing that can get a Rick to do something he doesn’t like.

 “How did your Morty get taken?” He asks.

“How did yours?” Rogue fires back.

“Don’t have one.”

He smiles, like he’d just heard a particularly funny joke. “Is that so?”

He doesn’t respond to the bait. Rogue keeps his eyes on him—a sharp shade of blue that would be chilling if not dulled by the lazy rest of his eyelids. They follow his movements like a drowsy panther, his posture the image of relaxed—but still, too still to be natural.

“I didn’t see it,” Rick finally concedes, and wonders how long they would have sat here if he hadn’t. “No one has.”

Rogue nods, leans forward and starts fiddling through the refreshments tray. “Went home before I got here. His bedroom’s empty and his sister tells me he’s been missing for three days.”

He examines a cookie, holds it up in the light as if he were inspecting a diamond, then chucks it over his shoulder. It lands softly against the carpet, and it might seem redundant, and even a tad comedic—but Rick knows it’s a test, a power play, as petty as it is. So he doesn’t bristle, or imagine the crumbs that must have fallen into the tiny red fibres, just keeps his hands calmly clasped. Rogue eyes home in on the invisible tells anyway.

“I’m sorry. Bit of a neat freak, are you?” Rogue grins.

“Bit of an airhead, are you?” Rick counters. “Three days and you didn’t notice your Morty was gone?”

“I’m not his keeper,” Rogue brushes off, kicking against the table into another chair-spin.

“So a couple’s spat,” Rick deduces. “You left, and didn’t notice someone take him from right under your nose.”

Rogue’s foot brakes hard against the table leg, his eyes glaring at him from across the table as he repeats, “Not his _fucking_ keeper.”

“Then you _did_ notice. You just failed to find him afterwards, and that’s why you’re here. Because you hoped one of us managed what you couldn’t,” Rick says. Rogue’s mouth curls into a snarl, and behind him, the orange sunset glows warningly like an amber traffic light. _Caution_. _Slow down._

“At least my Morty as actually mine,” Rogue bites. The snarl turns into a wicked grin when he tenses, and Rick curses himself. “How’d he go, huh? Did he slip in the shower? Eat a funky burrito?”

At Rick’s silence, Rogue’s confidence comes back full force. Both of them can see the ground gained, a dark black crawling across the table and swiftly eating up the land he previously had.

“Or perhaps,” Rogue muses. “It was _you_.”

The silence becomes tense—fills the room like a threatening haze of gasoline. Rick clenches his hands together where they remain politely clasped on the table. Bites his tongue.

“You fucked up, and he payed the price. A chest-full of bullets? Torture?” He asks, sadistically. “Or maybe it was something worse. Did you _lose control_ —Y-Y-You, you couldn’t hold yourself back, is that—”

“Seems like we have that in common,” Rick throws back, and the grin vanishes from Rogue’s face. “No need to worry, of course. If you need, I can get you a replacement. I can barely tell the difference with my new one. They’re all so _similar_ , aren’t they?”

It’s a blatant contradiction to his previous denial, but the lie does its magic, and Rick watches in satisfaction as Rogue’s stance turns still. They watch each other, cold and stony like two marble chess pieces, opposite from each other on a narrow board of mahogany wood. Rick’s white, polished king against Rogue’s obsidian counterpart.

“We’ve got a lot of choice,” Rick purrs. “Pretty little things that’ll do whatever you say. Their old Ricks gave them up, and now they’re so _desperate_ to please. Eager sluts that just love to—”

“Fuck you,” Rogue snarls. The calm and cool façade crumbles—pitiful, pointless emotion rearing its head.

“My apologies,” Rick says lightly, biting back a smirk. “You already have one of those, don’t you?”

Rogue slams his fists against the table, eyes burning with an icy glare. Rick hears a sharp, splintering crack travel down the wood, and eyes the polished, smooth surface.

“I suggest you sit back down,” He offers, a lazy, smug smile on his lips. “Don’t forget which of us came to the other.”

Eyeing Rogue’s clenched jaw and the hard set in his shoulders, he wonders if he should prepare to dodge in case his twin decides to pull out a gun. But he doesn’t have to worry. Rogue slowly sits back down, and Rick leans back and watches him, victorious.

He reaches behind his ear and feels for the small chip just under the skin. Grits his teeth and digs his nail in until he can pry it out. He can feel the flesh hastily heal around his fingers and rips out the metal quickly, sliding it across the table.

Rogue doesn’t remove his harsh gaze from him as he pins it to the table with a finger, unflinching despite the electric shocks that it must be emitting in response to foreign DNA.

“My… key to the city. In a very literal sense,” Rick offers. “Your portal gun is no longer blocked from entering any Citadel barriers. You have full access to our databanks, our military—and my _wallet._ You can direct the investigation as you wish. You point, they shoot.”

“And how am I supposed to use your custom paint job?” Rick asks, studying it.

“You’ll figure it out,” Rick dismisses. “Don’t spend it all in one place. In return, I trust you’ll clean up this mess for me.”

“I could kill them all,” Rogue offers, half-serious.

“Whatever works,” He responds, completely serious.

_“Everything you do, you do it… seriously. Like, really seriously.”_

_“That’s my job.”_

_“But, like—how do you sleep? Or… poop? Do you frown the entire time?”_

_“We’re not talking about this.”_

_“I bet you do.”_

He stands up and lazily strides over to Rogue’s end of the table, sliding his fingers along the edge. “Next time you come, I hope you’ll choose a less…” He eyes the blood stain still drying into the carpet. “Less conspicuous entrance.”

Rogue stands up. Smiles wryly. “Yes sir.”

“Don’t fuck up.”

“It’s a deal.” Rogue holds out a hand in the small space between them.

Rick looks down at it, unamused. “You honestly think I’m that stupid?”

The grin widens. Rogue turns his hand over, studies it and flexes his fingers. Slightly, ever so slightly, Rick can see purple currents run along the skin like small bolts of lightning, and he knows without his cybernetic eyes it would be invisible.

“Poxetta seed oil.” Rick says, eyes trailing up Rogue’s neck, following the purple lines. “Stronger than any venom in the universe. And a bitch and a half to make an immunity potion for.”

Rogue beams in response, reaching out a hand to wipe up and down his blazer. They watch each other for a long moment, until Rick can no longer ignore the rancid smell of corroded fabric, and steps back to calmly shrug off his blazer before the acidic substance reaches his shirt.

“Go to hell,” Rick says in response to his chuckle, folding the ruined material over a chair. He’d liked that blazer.

“I’m right here,” Rogue counters. He pats the chair’s frame and asks, “How important is a matching furniture set to you?”

“Don’t you dare—” He makes to grab it, but Rogue has already lifted it up and bashed it against the window.

It breaks, the legs clattering to the floor in loose pieces, and leaves a spider-web pattern in the glass. Rogue kicks at it until it gives way and leaves a sharp-edged hole. It should be bullet-proof, but it was obvious the Rogue wouldn’t skimp out on augmentations.

“Y-You know,” Rogue says. “It would be more convincing if you were knocked out. Maybe a few scratches.”

“Get out.”

With one last smirk and a mocking two-fingered salute, he hops over the window sill and out of sight, disappearing down the steep drop of the building. Rick grimaces. The Rogue escaping his watch not ten minutes after he’d just reamed the Citadel guards for doing the same thing.

It had been fun, if not a little disappointing that the esteemed Rogue was beaten so easily in simple verbal sparring. It was to be expected, he supposed. At the end of the day Rick would always have the upper-hand. Because Rogue had lost his queen, and Rick was only missing a pawn.

_“But can’t a pawn become a queen?”_

_“You have to reach_ my end _of the board, dumbass, not_ yours _. And a pawn can’t move fucking backwards.”_

_“Then what the hell is Lexi’s superpower?”_

_“It’s not a—Stop naming your chess pieces—”_

_“Y-You’re paying for my time right now, to play chess with you, you know. So all this complaining—”_

_“—‘Cause you wouldn’t stop fucking whining—”_

He sits back down in his chair. Takes a sip of his coffee, now cold, and bites back a gag as the doors crash open.

“Sir! We heard a—the Rogue, where is he sir?!”

Rick looks around. “Ah,” He says, eyeing the broken window. “Not here, I suppose.”

~

Rick has lucid dreams. Not naturally, but man-made lucid dreaming. Rick wonders what he would think if he knew that his boss couldn’t even give up control when sleeping.

His control slips that night.

He’s sitting in his apartment, at the piano bench, playing Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp Minor—the same dream he always has. The white and black keys shine in gentle moonlight like carved stripes of pearl, and the notes drift through the apartment in haunting tones, floating through the air like a melodic ghost.

That night, unique to his familiar film of sleep, the ghost floats along smooth currents, and lands beside him.

It sits on the edge of the bench, a weight resting on his side. It lifts and sinks with the rise and fall of the music in a mockery of breathing. It feels both warm and cool at the same time, and Rick is reminded of that strange phenomena when hypothermia victims experience hot flashes, and feel through the burning cold as if they are on fire.

 _Rick,_ it urges. _You stopped_.

He hastily turns back to the keys, resuming the song that had faded. He feels his mouth form an apology, but nothing comes out except an exhale of white breath. He didn’t realise the room was so cold. Shivers.

His hands feel numb. They’ve turned sickly with frostbite. The piano is out of tune, the frozen strings buzzing harshly and off-key. The winds blow angrily at the windows like an upset audience.

Steady beside him, the ghost stays. He turns his head and tries to look at it, but all his can see is a black shape, his vision turning dark like one side of his view has been blotted out. Soft hairs tickle his chin like snowflakes.

 _Rick_ , it says. _I’m cold_.

He turns back to the piano. The keys are angrily slamming in waves, as if there were something alive underneath them. The grating chords ring loud in his ears, there’s cold water flooding the room, biting at his ankles like an icy wolf and filling his shoes with dark frost.

The windows slide open slowly, creaking like old metal gates. A breeze rushes in as if it were running away from something, fills his lungs with frigid air that makes a shudder run through his body.

_I’m cold, Rick._

“I know,” He whispers. “We… We won’t be long.”

 _I wanna go home,_ it pleads. _I don’t like it here Rick._

Rick shuts his eyes tight. It reaches out a hand and wraps around his wrist, cold, so _cold_ —He turns to look at it, dread building in his core, suspense turning his stomach—

The seat is empty, save for a small chess piece resting on its side. Toppled over.

Rick picks it up. Studies the cold ice, with its loving, intricately-carved pattern. It begins to melt against his skin.

_“But can’t a pawn become a queen?”_

“Yes,” Rick agrees, facing opposite from him. He looks down at the chess board with a frown. “But we don’t have a spare queen-piece.”

A finger points at the one in his hand.

_“Can’t I just use that one?”_

_—_ Rick snaps his eyes open, sits up in the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest. Lets out a shuddering breath.

His fingers dart up to press behind his ear, and find nothing but smooth skin. Of course. He’d given Rogue his chip—the all-in-one package, since he’d always been about efficiency. Well, at least one of them would be sleeping soundly for the next few nights.

He turns and swings his legs over the bed. The hands of his watch glow from the nightstand. _11:16._ He really is an old piece of shit.

The bed is soft and warm beneath him, and goosebumps rise on his skin at the coolness of the apartment. Still, he can’t see himself sleeping again anytime soon.

He gets up, makes the long journey across cold tiles to the kitchen. Lingering in the doorway, he glances at the grand piano sitting in its nook by the window, the light of a thousand stars shining across it like the smooth blade of a sword.

He turns around. Goes back into the bedroom, and pulls open the beside drawer and rests against the edge of the bed with the portal gun’s weight heavy in his hands. Flicks the small switch, and watches it faithfully light up with green energy, as bright as the day he built it.

Perhaps he’ll drink out tonight.

“Welcome back, sir,” The bouncer greets with a nod as he passes inside. The line-up he walks past is the same length as always despite the disappearances, and he figures the amount of regulars staying home to sulk is cancelled out by the amount of Ricks desperate to get trashed on a liquor buffet.

The dance-floor is sparse and the tables are over-crowded. Rick isn’t surprised. He goes to the bar, spots the most shit-faced Rick, and pushes him out of his seat before taking it up himself. Cringing at the sticky surface on the counter in front of him, Rick grabs a napkin and begins wiping it down.

The bartender snorts. “Welcome to Blood Moon, make yourself comfortable.”

“Is your boss okay with you handing out free drinks?” Rick asks, gesturing to the bartender’s repetitive motions as he pours one after the other without care, continuously sliding them down the bar to be grabbed by the closest hand.

The Rick scoffs. “You mean that guy?” He points to the end of the bar, where a Rick is slumped over, an alarming amount of glasses stacked around him.

“He lost his Morty too. He’s just rich enough that he can afford to sulk, like you.” He pauses. “Also, I-I-I’m hoping that if we run out of liquor, I can go home early.”

“I don’t have a Morty,” Rick denies, and to be frank, it’s more out of reflex now, despite the perfect logic behind it. It’s a security thing. A Morty assistant serving a high-profile position can’t answer to another Rick. And a Rick in a high-profile position can’t have a Morty.

“Yeah,” He agrees without a blink, even though he clearly doesn’t believe it. It’s a neutral tone, unbiased and unjudgmental. A _bartender voice_ , he thinks with amusement. Rick eyes the red and black uniform, the clear little tag on his shirt that reads: _T-35_. _Martini Rick._

He looks over the bar and sees, along with the unending stream of shots, T-35 has also been making an army of pink, frothy drinks, resembling fancy strawberry milkshakes more than hard alcohol.

“Daiquiris,” T-35 clarifies when he sees Rick’s questioning gaze. “Feel free to take one. No one’s drinking it.”

“A Morty drink,” He guesses, and then throws back the shot he’d taken.

“A pussy drink,” T-35 responds, but his voice isn’t harsh, more wistful. “We have to make it look like unicorn shit, or the Mortys get scared off.”

Rick almost points out that there are no Mortys here, and therefore no reason to make them, but then he remembers—that little nuisance called sentiment. It’s becoming, unfortunately, quite familiar to him these days.

 “You don’t seem to be too concerned,” he remarks, “With you Morty missing.”

The Rick rolls his eyes. “He’s a tough shit. He can take care of himself—besides, I’m not going to waste my time searching for my Morty when a million other versions of me are doing it for me.” He shrugs. “I love the shithead, but hell if I’m passing up the tips tonight.”

“I wouldn’t expect Ricks to be very generous tippers,” Rick points out.

“Their wallets are,” He says. “Speaking of which, can you pass me that?”

Rick grabs the abandoned wallet from the empty seat beside him and hands it over with raised eyebrows. “Are you a bartender, or do you just do whatever the hell you want?”

“He can have it back if he asks,” T-35 brushes off as he pulls out Citadel bills from the sleeve and smoothly tucks them into the pocket of his apron. Rick looks down at the passed-out form on the floor and decides that outcome won’t be very likely.

“Is your Morty your original?” Rick asks.

T-35 looks at him, searchingly. “Yes.”

“If…” Rick swirls around the purple liquid in his shot glass, briefly wondering if there’s some sort of drug laced into it that makes all bar patrons desire impromptu therapy sessions with a bartender. “If you were to lose him, would you replace him?”

“No,” He answers without hesitation. “Nothing could replace him. But…” He watches Rick with sharp eyes. “Getting another Morty doesn’t have to mean replacing him.”

Rick freezes.

“And I’m sure…” He continues slowly, “He would want me to be happy, and move on, as cliché as it sounds. And it won’t be the same, and I’ll spend most days hating all the ways they’re different, or maybe all the ways they’re alike, but…”

He shrugs, gestures at Rick’s empty glass and lifts the bottle in his hand. “Refill?”

Rick slides his glass forward with a nod, and swallows down the shot as soon as the stream of liquid leaves. His mind races, dulled by drink but infinitely sharpened by the bartender’s words.

“I found him at the School,” Rick starts, and there _has_ to be some kind of truth serum in these drinks, because Rick _never_ volunteers information about himself, but the words flow anyway, and it feels good to let them out. “They lined up all the best students for me to pick from, and this, this little fucker—"

He breaks off into a low chuckle. T-35 silently wipes at glasses, eyes down as if giving him privacy. Definitely some kind of therapy. “He’s sitting at a table in the corner, like they were trying to hide him or something—and he starts laughing like he’s high on K-Lax, and everyone’s watching him like he’d just stabbed someone. They’re scared shitless of how I’ll react, and—”

He huffs, and can’t help the amusement that returns with the memory. “It wasn’t even funny. He just broke a fork trying to eat a fucking salad.”

“Sounds like you got yourself a new Morty,” the Rick observes idly.

His face drops into a scowl. “He just works for me. He’s not my Morty.”

“Well,” The Rick begins, skepticism now unconcealed in his voice. “I work with Mortys too, and I don’t give a shit about them.” He sets down a shot in front of Rick, and somehow the gesture holds more accusation than an aimed rifle. “ _You_ sound like you give a shit about him.”

“Thanks for the drinks.” He swallows it down, grabs his coat and leaves.

He’d forgotten, why he hates talking with other Ricks.

~

He’s on his way to the bathroom when he runs into the Captain once more. He’s quite sure why he decides to stop, but he’s also not sure it was just a coincidence to run into him.

“How are the searches?” Rick asks, standing beside him and looking ahead at what has the Captain’s interest. It’s the large board listing all the tips that have been submitted, but most are either joke responses or fruitless repetitions.

“Going well, sir.”

“… Any progress?”

“Nothing of import, sir.”

The eyes remain stony, staring forward. Stance professional, and rigid. A perfect soldier, Rick thinks.

He sighs. “Listen—”

The eyes turn. Just as striking as when he looks in the mirror. The gaze of a strong Rick.

“I—regret my words yesterday.” He says with a grimace. A bitter taste fills his mouth. “Your force has been helpful.”

The Captain stares. Bursts into cackles.

“Jesus fucking christ,” He chokes out, sides heaving. His eyes start tearing.

Rick frowns, straightening up. “Listen pal—”

“No—You’re—” The Captain claps him on the shoulder. Rick looks down at his friendly hand, perturbed by the gesture. “You’ve really got a stick up your ass, huh?”

He pats Rick on the shoulder again, chuckling still. “Listen, I know every Rick wants to think he’s the smartest and _blah blah blah_ , but drop the high and mighty act, yeah? You might actually start to like us,” He teases.

“…I’ll consider it,” Rick agrees carefully.

“Good. On another note…” The hand on his shoulder grips tight, harshly. The Captain’s friendly gaze turns lethal as he leans in. “There was an order given concerning the investigation last night. With your signature on it. Strange, considering we had a meeting not two hours previous where you said nothing of import, and gave no indication of the plan you later decided on.”

“I didn’t mean to inconvenience you, but I wasn’t aware the military had business hours,” Rick says, pleasantly. “And I told you orders would come later.”

“Ah. Well, then my memory seems to be a bit foggy. Can you repeat those orders for me?” The Captain asks, watching him closely. When Rick stays silent, he shrugs. “Well, no matter. But you know what else is funny? The accompanied order to drop the search for our esteemed guest, and prioritise the disappearances over the Rogue.”

“The public doesn’t know about the Rogue’s appearance,” Rick excuses. “If we start pouring resources into finding him, then word’s likely to get out that he could be somewhere loose on the Citadel. With his last time coming here and the Mortys gone, it would be chaos if every Rick found out.”

“Reports say he escaped under _your watch_ ,” He says lightly. “Quite the hiccup. I’m glad you weren’t harmed.”

Nodding, Rick turns around. “I need to take a shit. Nice chat.”

A hand darts out and grabs his wrist. The Captain smiles. “Bathroom’s the other way, sir.”

He returns the smile. “I’ll take the scenic route.”

“Cut the bullshit.” The grip stays stubbornly strong on his arm. “I know what you’re up to. _Both of you_. If you think he’ll get results, go ahead—but just remember that if he so much as _breathes_ in the wrong way, I’m taking you down with him.”

Rick yanks his arm away. The Captain steps back, hands politely clasped behind his back. “Have a nice day, sir.”

“You too,” He replies with a dark smile.

“He’s killed soldiers. Good soldiers,” The Captain calls to him in a growl. “And when their Mortys come back, _you_ can be the one to tell them why their Ricks aren’t here.”

He keeps walking. He barely turns the corner before a portal opens up beneath his feet and he drops in—

He twists and lands on his feet, straightening up and readjusting his jacket. He frowns up at the new, absurd angle that Rogue had shot the portal at.

“Aw,” Rogue coos, disappointed. “Thought I’d get you this time.”

“You have horrible timing,” Rick tells him.

“So do you. You were late.” He nudges his head towards his desk. “Come on. I’ve got something.”

Rick eyes the scanners and wires, the laptop running through an endless list of dimension signatures.

“I’m scanning a set perimeter in the registered IDs of the Citadel databanks. I’ve cross-referenced the times and locations of access—"

“The force has already tried this,” He interrupts. “No Rick on the suspects list—"

“I’m not checking for Ricks,” Rogue clarifies.

Rick stares at him for a moment, unsure if he’s being serious or not, then bites back a laugh. “You think a _Morty_ did this?”

“Look, your Morty might be a whiny pussy, but _mine_ is a tough piece of shit. Don’t rule it out yet.”

“But…” Rick chuckles. “Really?”

Rogue shrugs. “We’ll see.”

“They’re—they’re the ones that _disappeared_ ,” Rick reiterates. “That wouldn’t make sense unless—” He stops.

“Unless it was a Morty that had already disappeared,” Rogue finishes for him. “A Morty that dropped off the grid _before_ all this.”

And the more Rick thinks about it, he has to agree, it _did_ make sense. “A Morty without a Rick—likely a rocky past with them. Presumed dead.”

“And now the fuck’s back with a bone to pick,” Rogue finishes. He looks back at the screen as it skims through sequences of numbers and letters. “I’m scanning through the Mortys for any that disappeared or were reported as dead on any date before—” Rogue smirks wryly. “Before the destruction of the first Citadel.”

He doesn’t question the choice. If they had to include the Mortys lost in the first Citadel’s destruction, they’d be here all day. Rick glances back at the columns of data, and follows him, “Cross-reference the results with the Mortys that have dead or abusive Ricks in their past, and we have a new suspect list.”

“And then we know who to look for. Check past records for a ghost showing up where they shouldn’t be, and we know who it is.”

The computer beeps. One result.

“It’s too easy,” Rick says, and Rogue nods, staring at the screen with the same calculating eyes. “It’s impossible someone managed to steal away an infinite amount of Mortys without a trace—but it’s even more impossible that they’d fuck up with this of all things. They’re playing with us.”

“We’ve got a joker,” Rogue announces, then stops at Rick’s blank stare. “Like, the Joker? Dark Knight? _Some men just want to watch the world burn_.”

“No,” Rick says.

Sighing, Rogue pushes off from the table and bends down to start fiddling on the computer. He hisses through his teeth, and Rick looks over his shoulder to see what happened.

The Morty’s records are complete, save for the single piece of information they actually need. His location.

“We know who the fucker is,” Rogue says, staring at the screen darkly. “Now it’s just _where_ he is. He’s probably using some of those Mortys as a cloaking device for the massive operation he has going on. If we can’t pick up his brainwaves, he could be anywhere.”

Rick blinks, looking at the data with a confused frown. “But—Morty waves, they just cancel out a Rick’s brainwaves. One Morty per Rick. That’s how the waves _work_. They can’t just cloak whatever the hell—”

“It happened in the show,” Rogue tells him, and he huffs.

“No,” Rick says again. “That’s fucking _stupid_. Change it back.”

The computer beeps. The previously blank space of the Morty’s location are now filled with multi-verse coordinates. On a separate screen, notifications pop up in sporadic blinks, announcing that the signatures of millions of Mortys have been detected.

Rogue glares at him. “Why didn’t you point that out sooner? This entire thing could have been solved a week ago.”

He shrugs, not truly understanding it either. “If the canon can have blatant plot-conveniences, a fanfiction can too.”

“Well, it’s done now,” Rogue sighs, hunching over the keyboard. As Rick watches his hands fly over the keys, he cringes at the typos and blunt orders that are sent to the Captain. “If you’re going to impersonate me, you could at least _try_ to be convincing.”

“He already knows,” Rogue assures, fiddling through the pockets of his lab coat.

Rick stands still, staring forward. Plans begin to formulate in his head, screening hundreds of scenarios and steps of action. An infinite amount of dominoes they could push into unique spiraling paths. Distantly, he can hear his heart thrumming in his chest, awakening with adrenaline.

He’s feeling—exhilarated, he realises. He feels his blood begin to buzz in the same way it does when an adventure takes a turn for danger. It’s been a while since he’s gone on one of those.

“Whoever this Morty is, with a plan of this caliber there’s no way he’s unprepared. He’ll be ready for us. It might be helpful to have a team on the side, an unofficial one.”

“In case it’s a trap,” Rogue concludes. “They’ll be expecting the Citadel to roll in, but not for us to be tagging along.”

Rick nods, watches as Rogue pulls out a simple blaster, his portal gun in the other hand.

“Nice logic. Real neat plan,” Rogue compliments. “But here’s mine: let’s go.”

“Not _right now_ ,” Rick corrects him, incredulous. “The Guard’s not ready yet, and we don’t know what to expect on the other side. You can’t just waltz in, guns blazing and hope to take him out."

Rogue snorts. “Watch me.”

Then he opens a portal into the ground and steps forward, falling through feet-first—You should never do that, you can’t possibly predict what might be on the other side, let alone such an impractical entrance—

Rogue’s torso pops back out, his arms braced against the garage floor as if he were in a green, swirling swimming pool. “All clear, sir.”

“I’m not joining in on a suicide run,” Rick tells him.

“It’s only suicide if y-you—if you think you’re not good enough to make it out,” Rogue smirks at him. “ _Come on_ ,” He sings. “It’ll be fun.”

“Screw you,” Rick says, and then he steps forward, and drops through the portal.

~

It’s rather… underwhelming in the end.

“It’s because y-y-you didn’t do jack shit,” Rogue tells him.

“You seemed to have a handle on things,” He excuses, and really, Rogue had.

What was supposed to be an infiltration ended up resembling more of a leisurely stroll, and the dark red lights and reptilian henchmen came off as tacky instead of threatening when he didn’t have to worry about fighting anything—not with Rogue plowing ahead without a glance back at what he was shooting, stabbing, exploding, or any combination of the three.

He hadn’t even seen the asshole, just followed Rogue into a room and found a fresh pile of gory mush before it had even landed on the floor. Apparently, Rogue was far too impatient to endure a cheesy villain monologue.

“I hope you’re sticking around to clean up.”

“Hope you like disappointment.”

Rick huffs, eyes scanning through the chaos surrounding them. Ricks and Morty flow around in busy swarms, the Citadel guards organizing Mortys by dimension number like a bizarre matching game. A few of the oddballs get spotted by their Ricks immediately, but most blend in with the sea of bruised faces and yellow shirts, and can only wait in lines until their Rick finds them among the crowds.

“So what does he look like?”

“Short and stupid,” Rogue answers. Rick interprets that to mean he looks likes a normal Morty. “Yours?”

“He’s not…” Rick’s eyes stop, landing on the Morty frantically waving at him, wavering on the top of his feet to be seen above the crowd of his doppelgangers. Rick turns his head away with a grimace as the blue blazer begins to squeeze through the masses, slowly making his way over.

“Hello sir,” He greets, eyes bright.

Rick nods at him. “Monkey.”

It seems like he didn’t get the memo, because he smiles at the word as if it was an endearment. And it wasn’t.

“Morty, actually,” He corrects, completing the familiar teasing exchange as if he’d never left. “You _can_ call me that, you know.”

Rick doesn’t respond. Just like all the other times, he doesn’t explain how he’d never refer to a Morty as _Morty_. It’s too personal. But dimension numbers are a nuisance, and identifying features can be lacking, so the easiest option is a nickname. It’s not friendly, or affectionate. Just practical.

“I guess…” His assistant looks past him, and the smile lessens into something smaller. Rick follows his gaze and sees the School professors gathering their students. “I-I-I, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He begins to slink past Rick, and really, it’s the coffee, he hasn’t had a good coffee in ages—“Where do you think you’re going?”

His assistant pauses, opens his mouth and closes it as if running through his mind for appropriate responses.

“For the record, the past six days have been taken out of your vacation time,” Rick notifies him.

He blinks. “I don’t have vacation time.”

“Exactly. And you can work around the clock for the next several days to make up for it.” Rick keeps his gaze stern. “And until it’s payed, you’re not leaving my side unless it’s to take a shit.”

 The smile grows back, slowly first, then budding into a wide, warm grin. “Yes sir.”

Rick almost returns it, but then he imagines the smug look on Rogue’s face—

He turns, but no one else is there. Rogue has disappeared into the crowds, camouflaging in seamlessly with the other generic scientists flooding the room. He looks around at the other pairs of Ricks and Mortys with idle wonder. He can't quite imagine the infamous Rogues hugging, or shyly eyeing each other with fidgeting fingers, but he's confident that they'll work themselves out, in their own way.

His eyes focus on the Rick in a familiar red and black uniform not two meters away, standing close beside a Morty in matching attire.

“—And then this Morty came and told us to pick a side and he—he, he threw us in this room w-with a bunch of other Mortys and—”

“Morty, for the love of god, shut your mouth,” T-35 says, but he looks completely smitten, staring at his Morty with soft, fond eyes. The unconcealed love-sickness on his face makes Rick want to gag.

“Ew,” he hears from beside him. “Cooties.”

“Are you fucking five?”

“Sorry, sorry,” He rolls his eyes. “Can we go home now?”

 _Home_. The word slips off his tongue so easily, it looks like the kid doesn’t even notice it. Rick does—and now, now would be the perfect time to reiterate their boundaries, and explain that this was a simple business relationship, and his assistant was still just an orphan living at the School. Rick was his employer, not his new—

“Sure,” He says instead. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really hard time writing this chapter. I was so proud of my last one that I was scared to work on it. I was worried my next one wouldn’t live up to it, and that I’d disappoint everyone because I built up to a mediocre ending.  
> I made excuse after excuse, and the longer I delayed it, the worse I felt, until it just seemed better to abandon this fic completely. The stress I put on myself took away all the fun I used to get in writing. I’d look over all the beautiful, thoughtful comments on this fic and feel nothing but guilt.  
> So I took a break. I started working on other works, and brainstormed new ideas, with no expectations. And it worked. I regained the comfort that I used to have. And then I came back to this fic, and worked on it slowly.  
> So I guess this is just my way of encouraging other writers in the fandom who are experiencing the same thing. Stick with it! :) And we’re all here and totally understand and still love your writing. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself, and always remember that it’s okay to take a step back if you need to.


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